


A Place Beyond

by AnaliseGrey



Series: Where Light Fears to Tread [8]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anger, Body Horror, Broken Bones (mention), Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mention of multiple temporary character deaths (same character), Mentions of Trent Ithithon, Mentions of Yussa Errenis, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Temporary Character Death, but also canon-divergent (Molly shows up), canon-compliant for episode 26, implied/referenced malnutrition, mention of death as escape, non-consenting magic healing, refereneced hopelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24517351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: For a long time, he sleeps.There are moments of lucidity, vague recollections of a cup being gently pressed to his lips, water and occasionally clear broth sliding pleasantly down his throat, but things are fuzzy, so muddled that he’s more or less asleep again before he can finish swallowing.Dying, even temporarily, takes a lot out of a person, and he’s died quite a lot recently.
Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast
Series: Where Light Fears to Tread [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1441021
Comments: 26
Kudos: 173





	A Place Beyond

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks (and apologies) to Euripedes. Those of you who have seen the quote will likely recognize the reference, though I'll have the actual quote in the end notes.
> 
> This follows directly after [Unbowed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/22095406), and contains references to both that, and [Unwilling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/22078447).
> 
> Title taken from a section of quasi-creepy pasta [which you can read here](http://tumbleaboutit.tumblr.com/post/615258437354504192/the-half-elf-disaster-cryptic-fox-wanderess).
> 
> There's some heavy stuff Caleb is going through, and I think I've tagged it all, but if I missed something, please feel free to let me know and I'll add it in.

For a long time, he sleeps.

There are moments of lucidity, vague recollections of a cup being gently pressed to his lips, water and occasionally clear broth sliding pleasantly down his throat, but things are fuzzy, so muddled that he’s more or less asleep again before he can finish swallowing.

Dying, even temporarily, takes a lot out of a person, and he’s died quite a lot recently.

When he finally begins to come back to himself, it’s a slow process. Awareness filters in incrementally- the softness of the blankets swaddling him, how he’s warm and comfortable for the first time in recent memory. There’s still some pain, but it’s so far from what he was experiencing before that it’s almost negligible. It’s quiet, wherever he is, and even with his eyes closed he can tell the sun is shining, feel its warmth on his skin through what must be a nearby window. As he wakes up more fully, there’s the sound of waves, the subtle scent of salt on the air, and memories of arrival at Yussa’s tower resurface.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes.

As comfortable as he is, as safe as this feels, he knows that once he opens his eyes he will need to start dealing with everything he’s been through, and even just thinking about it is exhausting. So he doesn’t; he settles more firmly back against the pillows under him, and focuses on the shift of sunlight as it travels across his skin, warming his hand, then his arm, up to his collarbone and chin, and it’s only once it reaches his face that he lets himself begin to stir, the brightness too much for him to comfortably bear just yet. Caleb begins a self-assessment, a habit begun at the start of his captivity as a way to take stock of what state he was in, even if there was nothing he could do about it. His fingers and toes all flex and bend with little issue, only a vague tenderness reminding him that all had been broken, healed, and broken again at some point over the course of his imprisonment. Next are wrists and ankles, similarly intact, and the relief he feels knowing his hands still work, that they haven’t been irreparably ruined is near overwhelming. He twists his forearms, tenses and releases his biceps, thighs; he moves onto his abdominal muscles, wondering at the growing realization that everything seems to be intact as far as he can tell, even if there’s still some lingering stiffness here and there. At last he gets to his head, and he scrunches and moves his face, using his tongue to poke around his mouth. He thinks it’s something akin to a proper miracle that he survived with all of his teeth intact, and he wonders whose deity he has to thank for that.

Finally there’s nothing left for it but to open his eyes and see what’s going on. He does so, blinking to clear some of the haze from his vision, and the room around him resolves. The walls are curved stone, whitewashed to catch the light from the windows. There are lush area rugs on the ground, thick and soft-looking, with an elegant-looking desk and chair off to one side. Further along the wall is a bureau, next to it a wash stand with mirror, and it doesn’t take Caleb long to discern where he must be.

He’s still in Yussah’s tower. How many favors have they accrued in the course of retrieving him? How much debt from securing Yussah’s help, to keep him hidden away as he convalesces?

He’s working himself up into a panic when the door to the room swings opens, and Caduceus steps in, a tray in his hands. It doesn’t take him long to realize Caleb’s awake, and once he does a smile spreads slow and easy across his face.

“Well hello there, Mr. Caleb.” He bumps the door closed behind him with his hip and moves forward, steady and unhurried to set the tray on the small nightstand to the side of Caleb’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

There’s no way to concisely state how he’s feeling, to convey the churning mix of relief and anxiety, of calm and worry that even now causes his heart to pound faster. So instead he asks, “How long has it been?” He winces at the state of his voice, like he’s been swallowing glass, his accent thicker than it’s been in months, if not years. Caduceus doesn’t seem bothered, just sets about fixing up a mug of what Caleb thinks must be tea considering the honey and lemon being added to it.

“It’s been two days since we got you back. Are you feeling alright to sit up, you think? I’d like you to try to drink some of this if you can, but I can help if you need.”

Two days.

Two days since Ikithon was killed. Two days since Beauregard pulled him off that table and carried him out, since his rescue.

Since his last death.

He isn’t ready to process most of that, he doesn’t think, so he focuses on the little things, like sitting up. Instead of answering, he gets his hands planted on the mattress on either side of himself and pushes, struggling to get to a sitting position. Caduceus clucks his tongue and comes over, gentle hands assisting until Caleb is mostly upright and propped against his mound of pillows. It’s worrisome how just that small effort has left his arms shaking, leaving him feeling weak as a newborn kitten. He’s known that in the incredibly unlikely situation in which he made it out that alive, he wasn't going to be unchanged, that his time in Ikithon’s hands would have an effect on him, permanent or no, but it’s still shocking how much he’s diminished, how much of a lack there is. He’s never been physically strong, that’s always been other people’s purview, but it’s never been like this. He thinks he’d likely lose an arm-wrestling contest with Kiri right now, and that’s a sobering thought.

“There now, how about some tea? I can help with the mug if you like.”

Caduceus is still smiling at him, calm, patient as anything, and Caleb nods. “Yes. Thank you. And help would be appreciated.”

He finds his face burning, not just from the steam wafting up from the mug. Again, he _knows_ it’s ridiculous, there’s no reason to feel shame about this of all things, not after everything he’s just been through, and yet-

And yet.

Even with it over, it isn’t over.

The tea is hot, but not scalding, somehow the perfect temperature to be drinkable yet deliciously warm as it soothes his throat; the honey is sweet, the lemon a bright note and it’s almost too much. Tears sting at his eyes and he needs to take a moment to collect himself, to not be overwhelmed by the simple pleasure of a cup of tea. A warm hand lands on his shoulder, comforting, and when he looks up Caduceus is smiling down at him, a knowing sort of look on his face.

“It’s okay to not be okay, Caleb. We don’t know precisely what you’ve been through, but I think I can speak for all of us when I say we don’t expect you to be okay, and it’d be kind of weird if you were.”

Caleb huffs a laugh, and it’s closer to a sob than he’s comfortable with. “Thank you, Caduceus.”

The hand on his shoulder gives a squeeze and it’s grounding, feels like safety in a way he hasn’t felt in far too long.

“When you’re ready, we’ll be here for you. This isn’t something that has to happen in a day. You have time.”

And it’s a good thing, because recovery is slow.

Caleb spends almost a week in bed past when he initially wakes, unable to stand on his own for more than a few moments at a time. It’s frustrating, to be so dependent on others, to not be able to go where he wants, when he wants. He spends a lot of time reading, since it’s about the only thing he’s capable of, and even then it’s taxing; sitting up and holding his books is tiring in a way it’s never been. Frumpkin helps, as he always does, keeping close, purring like mad and being a warm, comfortable weight against his side, a reminder that he’s safe, that he’s _out_. 

The others visit during his initial convalescence, to talk with him, to keep him company. Jester visits and reads to him from a book of fairy tales she finds in her old room at the Chateau, doing funny voices for each character and making him smile. Fjord is awkward the first few times, until they settle into a pattern where Caleb reads and Fjord practices his whittling; it’s quiet and comfortable. When Beau comes by she brings new books. She tries to pretend it isn’t a big deal, that she just happened upon them while looking for something else, but Caleb knows her well-enough by now to see the lie in her words. He thanks her quietly for the new reading material and doesn’t miss the glow of pride on her face from a job well-done.

Yasha makes no illusions about trying to keep him occupied, but instead lends her presence as a beacon of safety he can appreciate. He rarely feels as secure as when she’s in the room, even if all she does is sit quietly and pet Frumpkin while he reads. He has a feeling she doesn’t feel like a safe person to be around, still, but he thinks there’s fewer safe places to be than at her side as a friend.

Veth spoils him, bringing him all sorts of treats and snacks, foods she think he may enjoy once Caduceus has cleared him to eat normal food again, and food- food is it’s own battle at first. It’s been so long since he’s regularly eaten anything other than the bare minimum required to survive- or less, he thinks ruefully- that working up to even bread with butter is a matter of trial and error. Veth is nothing if not persistent, though. She keeps trying, adjusting what she brings him, starting with hard candies to suck on, to sweet buns, and on and on, urging him to have just a taste, to just try, even if he can’t eat the whole thing. He does, and slowly, bit-by-bit and bite-by-bite he starts to get his energy back, starts to look less like a skeleton with delusions of grandeur and more like a man.

It’s towards the end of the first week when Molly arrives, fresh back from a trip to Xhorhas. Since his return to the land of the living, Molly has largely been following his own path, but always in the end he comes back, eager to slot himself in as if he’s never left. Caleb is already up, freshly bathed and dressing with Caduceus’s assistance when there’s a light knock at the door. Caleb calls for them to enter, far past worrying about modesty at this point, and he’s delighted by the flash of purple when the door opens.

“Mollymauk, it is good to see you.”

Molly frowns as he sweeps in, his eyes scanning over Caleb in a way that would be disconcerting if it were anyone else before his expression shifts. “Oh Caleb-” Molly looks devastated, the worry clear, and Caleb places a hand on Caduceus’s arm.

“If you would please give us a few minutes? I’m sure Mollymauk would be happy to help me finish getting ready.”

“Sure thing. Give a yell if you two need anything.” With that Caduceus leaves, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving Caleb and Molly alone together for the first time in what Caleb thinks is probably months. He holds a hand out and Molly comes to him immediately, hands fluttering around Caleb as if he’s afraid to touch, like Caleb will shatter if he’s not careful. Reaching up, Caleb catches one of Molly’s wrists and pulls his hand close to kiss the knuckles.

“ _Hallo, schatz_.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.” Molly looks as if he’s about to cry, worry chased around his face by guilt, and Caleb will have none of that.

“Nonsense. I don’t blame you for any of it. You couldn’t have known where we would end up, or what would happen.”

“But I should have _been_ there.” Molly’s emphatic, turning his hand in Caleb’s to thread their fingers together, giving Caleb’s hand a squeeze. “I promised you- I _promised_ you- that if you ever had to go back to that place I’d be with you, at your side the whole way, and I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t, but that is hardly your fault, Mollymauk. We didn’t tell you we were going, there was no way you could have known. It all happened so quickly, there was no time. And we accomplished our goal; we got Yasha back. That’s the important thing.”

Face twisting, Molly steps forward, pulling Caleb into his arms gently, _so_ gently, and just holds him. Caleb for his part winds his arms around Molly, burying his nose into the crook of Molly’s shoulder, breathing him in, the scent of lavender and spice that smells more like home to him now than anything else.

“Thank you, love,” Molly murmurs a few moments later, still refusing to let Caleb go. “Thank you for helping to get her back. I can’t imagine what you suffered to do it, but thank you.”

“I will not say it was nothing,” Caleb says, measuring his words carefully. “But it was _worth_ it, every moment, to get her back. She is a friend, and she is family- _our_ family- and nothing felt right while one of us was missing. We couldn’t have done anything else, it wasn’t a choice.”

“But it _was_ , though.” Molly pulls back just enough to press a kiss to Caleb’s temple, his breath ghosting warm over Caleb’s cheek. “The others have told me some of what it was like, before you were taken, and it must have been terrifying for you.”

“It was,” Caleb says quietly, taking a small step back and tugging Molly along with him so he can sit on the edge of the bed. Molly sits beside him, a line of blazing warmth where they press together, and Caleb leans into him. “But I don’t regret it, the decision to go to Rexentruum. It was an acceptable risk, and I would do it again.”

Molly reaches up and takes Caleb by the chin, turning his head to kiss him, resting their foreheads together after. “Hopefully you won’t need to. Beau told me the bastard is dead now.”

Caleb shudders, unable to help it. It still feels surreal when he remembers that Ikithon’s dead. He saw the body himself, he knows it to be true, and yet there’s a part of him that can’t quite believe it. In one of the moments where Beau was sitting with him, the two of them reading quietly, he’d asked her, no longer able to hold the question in, whether she was _certain_ , absolutely _positive,_ that Ikithon was dead. He’d been half-expecting her to laugh at him, or look at him in annoyance that he didn’t trust her, but instead she’d set her book aside and taken his hands in hers and looked him straight in the eye as she reassured him that yes, Ikithon was very dead, she’d made sure of it herself.

It’s surprisingly soothing.

But even now, knowing it’s true, having been reassured, surrounded by Molly’s warmth and strength, it’s still hard to _believe_ it. Ikithon has been in pride of place in his nightmares for so long Caleb doesn’t know that he’ll ever be able to get him out, not really.

With Molly’s arms around him, though, it’s easier to believe that someday he _could_.

Taking a deep breath, Caleb lets it out slowly, shifting slightly so he can nuzzle into the crook of Molly’s shoulder.

“I’ve missed you, _schatz_. I’m glad you’re back.” 

Above him, Molly sighs, breath ruffling Caleb’s hair, and pulls Caleb in closer, tightening his hold. “I’ve missed you too, love.”

Having Molly back makes things more pleasant, if not necessarily easier.

Much to his frustration, Caleb finds he’s still weaker than he remembers. The short walk from the guest room he’s been staying in to the washroom is exhausting, and the walk down to the sitting room impossible without help. Molly is only too happy to assist, sliding an arm around Caleb’s waist and offering support as they move slowly, but it still chafes at Caleb’s pride, making him snappish and sharp when he knows he should be thankful. Molly takes it all with good grace, which only makes Caleb feel worse for aiming his churlishness at him. He should _know_ better, and he does, but in the moment, when it’s happening, it’s difficult to control, near impossible to stop. It isn’t until after the fact that he has his moment of realization of what an _ass_ he’s being. Each time he apologizes, and each time Molly readily forgives him, and Caleb _hates_ it, hates the lack of control, hates the way he’s hurting Molly, even though Molly tells him it’s okay. It _isn’t_ okay, it’s _not_ , but that doesn’t seem to stop it from happening repeatedly.

And then there are the dreams.

He doesn’t remember being dead, for which he’s thankful. The time between falling unconscious and the moment he was dragged back to the land of the living is blessedly blank; considering what he thinks awaits him on the other side of the veil, if anything, he’s content not to know what awaits him there just yet.

His dreams, funnily enough, aren’t filled with death, but rather what he suffered through to get there. Everything Ikithon did while he was conscious, he remembers, even if his body doesn’t. There are marks, of course there are, but the most grievous wounds, the ones that proved fatal, left surprisingly few reminders behind, most having been healed in the effort to bring him back to life. After all, it would be a waste of resources to bring him back from death only for him to immediately expire again.

He wakes at night gasping, body tense from remembered pain, over and over and _over_ again, and there’s frustratingly little physical evidence when he looks at himself to prove what he knows to be true, to prove to himself that he experienced what he thinks he did. So much suffering, and there’s no _proof_ , no evidence to show it happened anywhere but in his own mind-

He can admit, if only to himself, that he isn’t handling it particularly well.

The others don’t know, is the thing. They know he was tortured, that’s readily apparent, but they don’t know the _rest_ , that Ikithon killed him by inches, multiple times, and death was at best a temporary respite instead of the hoped-for final escape. Knowing that he wouldn’t stay dead, that he’d wake up to Ikithon’s smile and whatever fresh horrors he had in store. They don’t know, and he has no intention of burdening them with that knowledge.

Except that Molly won’t stop picking at it, digging in at the edges of what he can glean from the scars that _are_ there, the ones he doesn’t recognize, the new ones. He asks, sideways and never with any great pressure, but still he asks. Caleb is quickly getting to the end of his last nerve on the subject, even though he knows Molly means well; he doesn’t want him to know, is already full of some vague twisted feeling he can’t describe from Molly seeing him as he already has. He doesn’t know that he can survive the weight of Molly's pity as well if he were to find out.

They're down at an empty stretch of beach one day a few weeks after Molly’s return when things come to a head. The clerics decide Caleb could do with the fresh air and sunshine, as well as some exercise, and Molly volunteers to go with him.

“I think we could both use a little time outside after being cooped up so long without. You know how it is in Rohsanna. It’s absolutely gorgeous, but it’s so _dark_ all the time.” Molly continues chatting while he gathers what he thinks they’ll need in a basket- a light blanket to sit on, snacks, a couple flasks of water, one of the books Caleb’s been reading- and obtains a sun umbrella from somewhere. Caleb hasn’t gone anywhere without one of the clerics nearby, yet; even on his short walks alone down to the base of the tower to walk around it, one of them is on a balcony that appears a floor up, within calling distance if necessary. For someone who spent so long trying to remain unseen, the constant scrutiny is enough to make his skin crawl. Molly assures both Jester and Caduceus that he can handle it, but will use one of their stones of far speech to call for help if need be.

Molly gets them settled on the beach, far enough from the water to be away from the spray, safely under the shade of the umbrella. It’s a beautiful day, the sky bright and cloudless, a cool breeze coming up off the water. The sand under their blanket is warm, soothing against some of the aches that persist even after all the healing Caduceus and Jester have thrown at him. Everything is good, Molly is at his side, and somehow it’s not enough.

It should be easy, Caleb thinks. It should be easy to fall back into this life, into these people, into _Molly_. Ikithon is dead, Caleb is back with his family, and everything should be _fine_.

But it isn’t.

Scowling out at the ocean, Caleb stares at the water until he’s near-blind from it, the brightness of the sun glinting on the water a lot after the constant cool dim of Yussa’s tower. Things should be fine, but they’re not. He should be happy- elated, even- at how things have ended up, but he isn’t. He isn’t happy, he’s not okay, and he _should_ be, and somehow that makes it worse. Gods what an ungrateful wretch he’s turned out to be on top of everything.

“Did the ocean do something to you personally, or are you glowering on someone else's behalf?”

Molly’s voice pulls him from the spiral of his thoughts, and when Caleb looks over at him it’s to find Molly lounging just slightly outside the shade of the umbrella, shirt off and basking in the sun like a large lavender cat. Molly’s watching him, expression open, careful, but Caleb’s hackles rise anyway, against his will.

“It’s nothing.”

His words are clipped, sharp, and he winces immediately after. There was no reason for that, no cause to lash out at Molly, and _again_ he’s done it, _again_ he’s snapped at the man who’s been nothing but kind, understanding, _loving_ -

“Caleb.” Sitting up now, Molly moves back under the umbrella and after a second’s hesitation, puts a hand on Caleb’s arm. Even through the light cloth of his shirt, it’s easy to feel the baked warmth of Molly’s touch. He wants that, wants to lean into it, to curl into Molly and stay there and be content; to forget, if only for a little while.

It's not his lot, though, to be be able to forget.

“Have you ever been tortured, Mollymauk?”

The words fall between them like stones, and Molly stills.

“I, uh-” Molly says, his voice a quiet match to Caleb’s. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

He doesn’t look at Molly, doesn’t think he can if he wants to get through this. He hadn’t intended to start this conversation, but the words have slipped out and it feels too late to backtrack now. Instead, he looks back to the ocean, to the great, uncaring expanse.

“The experience is, eh, different, for everyone. Not a ‘one-size-fits-all’ sort of thing, you know. It's a personal thing, in a way.”

Molly doesn’t say anything, just shifts his hand down Caleb’s arm until he laces their fingers together, giving Caleb’s hand a squeeze, waiting.

“When I was younger, back when I was still with the Academy, part of our training was, of course, about that. How best to inflict pain without killing someone by accident, how to get the information you needed with the fewest steps required. How to be _efficient_. The pain wasn’t always physical, and sometimes that wasn’t the best tactic. Torture at its core is about pressure, and time. But, you see, he didn’t just teach us how to best apply this information from the torturer’s point of view. That would have been an incomplete education.”

Molly’s fingers twitch in his, his tail flicking just at the edge of Caleb’s peripheral vision.

“We were going to be more than just executioners for the Crown. We were going to be Scourgers... _Vollstrucker_. We would be out in the world, in the field, doing what had to be done for the safety of King and Empire. We knew our own safety would never be absolute, and there was always a chance of capture by enemy forces. And well, why expect the enemies of the Empire to show any more mercy than we would? We had to be prepared.”

Molly shifts next to him, moving slightly closer, the squeeze he gives Caleb’s hand this time much more intentional. Caleb still can’t look at him.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Molly says, voice just loud enough to hear over the crash of the surf. “Gods know I’ve got things I never want anyone else to know, however fucked up that makes me. If you want to keep this, Caleb, that’s okay. It won’t change anything.”

That’s the problem though, isn’t it? He knows he can keep quiet, keep this to himself, and nothing will change; it might not get worse, but it also won’t get better. Nothing gets better without working at it, which means he has to do this to move forward, however unpleasant.

“He taught us how to separate ourselves, in a way, from our bodies, to distance ourselves from what was happening. As I’ve told Beau and Nott previously, he hurt us a lot. He put us through extreme circumstances; it was all part of the training, all part of making us better, making us stronger. Better able to withstand the trials we might face in our work. And we were grateful.” Caleb takes a shuddering breath and lets it out on a ragged laugh. “And I _was_ grateful, still, for that training in the first few weeks he had me. The training was hard, yes, and brutal, but it wasn’t _useless_. The theories and application are sound. It’s easier to not be fully present, to go away in your head. It makes it easier not to break. It gives you time, either for help to come, for you to plan an escape, or-” Caleb pauses. “Well. It gives you time to consider your options.”

Risking a glance up at Molly before he continues, Caleb’s eyes glance off the thin press of Molly’s lips, the studied neutrality to his expression. Caleb lets his gaze slide back to the ocean.

“So, _ja_ , I was trained, but Ik-” Caleb stumbles over the name, swallowing it down like the bitterest gall. He still can’t bring himself to say it. “ _He_ is- was- very good at what he did. And for a short while, I was, not _okay_ , but holding my own. After awhile, it becomes easier. There is a place beyond the hurt where everything just stops. It’s...I wouldn’t say peaceful, but it’s better than the alternative. The only problem, you see, is that he’s the one who trained us. He _made_ those guidelines, taught us what to do. I should have known he’d have a way around it.”

Molly’s hand squeezes again, a small sound of distress making it past his closed mouth, but now that he’s started, Caleb finds he can’t stop.

“I suppose I had become complacent, in a way. He hurt me, and I went away as long as I could,” Caleb says, feeling the next words coming like an oncoming, runaway horse, dangerous and unstoppable. “I thought it would be okay. That I could hold out, be stubborn. That if he killed me, he killed me, and if he didn’t, it would only give you all time to find me.” He laughs again, a strangled sound. “Well it turns out I was correct in both cases.”

“What?” Molly’s voice is quiet, horrified, and Caleb clutches at his hand without looking, not wanting to see his face.

“He, eh, well, you know one of the interesting things about the spell, Revivify, it is the only one of the family of resurrection magics that don’t require the soul to be willing to return. So, he was able to do what he wanted without too much worry, beyond what it was doing to his coin purse to have a cleric and diamonds ready. You know, it took a few times, though, before I really understood. Again, I was foolish, _lazy_. I had thought I could just go away, and when he killed me again, it would be a respite. I should have known. I should have _known_ ,” he bites out, the anger at his own stupidity, his own hubris, flaring up again. “He’s the one who taught us how to go away in our heads. I should have known he’d have a way around that. To make a person be aware, to make it impossible to avoid what was happening. To make a person _present_. To make _me_ be present.”

There’s a quiet curse next to him, and Molly is pulling his hand away, but only long enough to press closer, to pull Caleb into his arms and hold him like it will keep him safe. Caleb knows better, but he still leans into Molly’s chest, accepting the comfort.

“There was no end in sight, no escape. The best I could hope for after the first few weeks was to die, but even then, that wasn’t a solution. It was only a temporary setback; he wouldn’t let me stay dead until he got the information he wanted, and I was determined not to let him have it. No one is meant to suffer like that, nobody is meant to survive that kind of experience indefinitely. No amount of hope, of training, no amount of promises of rescue will be enough in the long run. Hope can almost make it worse, you know. If you don’t have hope, you can’t be hurt by it, by them having one more thing to take away. Hope is a hurt you inflict on yourself, they don’t even have to _do_ anything. That little flicker of hope can be enough to consume you whole, if you let it.”

Molly’s arms tighten around him as Molly presses a kiss into his hair.

“How-” Molly starts, pauses, then tries again. “How many times?”

Caleb can feel the fine tremble in Molly’s arms, knows what he's asking. He also knows this knowledge is going to be harder for Molly to bear than most.

“Five.” Molly shudders around him at that, and Caleb takes hold of Molly’s arm, gripping it to keep them both grounded. “I think it would have been more, but he was taking his time at first. It took him a week and a half to really get going.”

“ _Gods_ -” Molly mutters something in Infernal that makes Caleb’s ears ring unpleasantly. “I- I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, that I wasn’t _with_ you-”

“Shh, no.” Caleb stops him there, unwilling to let Molly bury himself in guilt. “You were doing what you had to, same as us. I knew there was a risk in going to Rexentruum. I’ve known for a long time that my past would eventually catch up with me, it was just a matter of time. When I decided to stop hiding I knew it would only become more dangerous, but it was _worth_ it. Yasha is worth it. I would have done it for any of our family, and I would do it again.”

Molly’s words buzz against the side of Caleb's head. "I hope you _never_ have to do that again."

A small smile tugs at Caleb’s lips. "That I can agree with."

They sit together, the sound of the surf soothing and rhythmic as the beat of Molly’s heart where it thuds against his side. The heat of Molly’s body is like the heat of the sand, and it's a good moment, one of the best he's had since he was pulled from Ikithon's table. It doesn’t ease the way of his next words, and they're no easier to utter for being true.

"I am not okay, Mollymauk." This is the first time he's said it out loud, and something in his gut twinges at being so open and vulnerable, even with Molly. "I'm not okay, and I don't know when, or if, I'll ever be okay again. Spite carried me a long way during my captivity. The ability to tell him no about something he very much wanted helped a great deal, but even that can only carry a person so far. Those kind of experiences change a person, and I don’t know how much of the man you knew came back.”

Pulling away just enough to rest his forehead against Caleb’s, Molly catches his eye, his hands coming up to gently frame Caleb’s face. It sets off an ache in Caleb’s chest, how careful Molly’s being with him.

“You know you don’t have to do this alone, no matter what, right? We’re all with you. _I’m_ with you. I’ll help you, and we’ll get through this together. Just like everything else.”

A huff of laughter catches in Caleb’s throat and tries to stick there. “That is a shit job to choose for yourself, Mollymauk.”

“Not to me,” Molly says, tilting his head up to press his lips to Caleb’s forehead. “Not if it’s you.”

Who’d have thought, after everything he’s been through, and suffered, it’s the _kindness_ that breaks him, that has Caleb falling against Molly in tears. He hasn’t cried like this in years, since the days just after the asylum, and he clings to Molly, the only solid thing he knows.

He cries a long time, and by the time he finishes he’s wrung out, exhausted. He becomes aware of Molly, holding him close and carding fingers through Caleb’s hair as he murmurs quietly. The words aren’t clear, but the tone is calming. The sun is setting, brilliant colors reflecting off the water, and he knows they’re going to have to go soon, to leave the beach and head back to the tower where it’s safe, where he can rest. He can only imagine the wreck he looks, and he isn’t looking forward to answering questions from the others upon their return.

There’s another press of lips to his forehead, and he can’t help the smile it elicits.

“How are you doing, love?”

“About as well as can be expected, I think.”

Molly hums in response and shifts away, digging momentarily through their picnic basket to pull out a flask of water and a napkin. He wets the cloth and wipes Caleb’s face, taking infinite care with it and with him, and tears prick in Caleb’s eyes again. The press of damp cloth is cool on his skin, refreshing and cleansing and it goes a long way towards making him feel more together. Pulling the cloth away, Molly hands him the flask, and Caleb drains it, suddenly aware of how much the heat and crying have taxed him.

While he drinks, Molly packs everything else up around them, fitting things back into the basket with an ease that reminds Caleb that Molly spent his formative years learning to pack up a circus, sometimes very quickly when needed. Molly retrieves the flask from Caleb when he’s done, and tucks that away as well, closing the basket after it and offering Caleb a hand up as they stand. The sand shifts under Caleb’s feet, and he’s grateful for the help as Molly makes sure he’s stable before collecting their blanket, folding it over one of Caleb’s arms to carry, and then closing and collecting their umbrella from the sand with a sharp couple of tugs. Umbrella over his shoulder and basket over one arm, he offers the other to Caleb.

“Shall we then?”

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb says, taking Molly’s arm and letting the strength there bolster him. “Let’s.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Pylades: I’ll take care of you.  
>  Orestes: It’s rotten work.  
> Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you._  
> ― _An Oresteia_ Euripides, Anne Carson (translator)


End file.
